Last eve, I felt the call o’ the Holy Spirit once more, urging me deeper intae the bowels o’ London’s filth. Whispers had reached me o’ a vile masquerade hosted by the upper ranks, tainted by the black arts. I slipped intae the grand ballroom, hidden beneath my nun’s robes, ready fer whatever fiends lay waitin’.
Amongst the finery, I glimpsed pale faces and glowing eyes, lurking in the shadows. My blood ran cold at the sight, yet I held fast to the righteous fire burnin’ within. As the clock struck midnight, the revelry turned to horror, as the guests revealed their true forms. Werecats and ghouls, they danced among the nobles, feedin’ upon their flesh.
Without mercy, I plowed through the throngs, my blade findin’ its mark in every monster’s heart. Screams filled the air, mixin’ with the strains o’ the orchestra, as I fought back the tide o’ evil. When dawn broke, the hall stood silent, save for the moans o’ the dying. Another victory won, though the cost remained heavy in me heart.
These aristocratic abominations think themselves above the law, immune to retribution. They’d do well to remember the words etched across me breastplate: Non Nobis Domine, sed Nomini Tuo Gloria. Not unto us, Lord, but unto thy name be glory. The scourge o’ the undead will fall upon them, no matter how high they climb.
>Soulkyn